


Lost In Hollywood

by 0oLadyDeliriumo0



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012), Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mind Control, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0oLadyDeliriumo0/pseuds/0oLadyDeliriumo0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Frost never came to California to chase star studded dreams of fame and fortune, he came to get lost in the crowd. A dirty little apartment in Santa Monica and a dead end job aren't exactly living, but it gets him what he needs. The club-scene lets him drown and the booze make him forget just how much he hates himself, if only for a little while. It's enough for him, and he figures that he's only living on borrowed time these days. </p><p>He's been approached by some questionable individuals and thought nothing of it, so when a shade of a man easily captivates him one evening, Jack is taken off guard. One encounter becomes two, and then two becomes three, four, five. A simple chance passing sends Jack's sad excuse for a life spiraling out of his control, danger springing from around every dark corner and pool of shadow.  There is nowhere safe for him to run anymore, and he learns all to quickly that not even death can save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasting Youth

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing but this has been in my head for a while now.

Santa Monica is just as much of a cesspool as Jack thought it would be, but it’s better than home, better than Burgess. There are no memories here, just clubs, sketchy alleyways, and his pretty shitty excuse for a studio apartment - the place absolutely reeks, which means there’s probably something dead in the ventilation system. He’s also pretty sure he’s seen roaches the size of his hand skittering around in the kitchen, and he swears they’d be smart enough to be able to hold him at knifepoint if they wanted to. Yeah, it’s a complete shithole, but it’s home now.

But Jack isn’t there enough to really call it that, either working his dead end job at a disgusting little diner or blowing all his money on booze at the club across the street from it. He’s not stupid, far from it, he was going to graduate the top of his class before he skipped town, he knows full well just how bad he’s gotten in a matter of weeks. Feeling simply wasn’t for him he had decided not long after arriving, and he felt much better off numbing it with any type of strong drink he could get his hands on. It’s a wonder he hasn’t become addicted to meth or cocaine yet, there are plenty of dealers in the club he frequents, and he has the cash, what little it is. Even he knows it’s just a matter of time and one too many shots before he goes and puts himself in that tight a bind.

Tonight is just another night that he’s going to waste at Club Asylum, a once barren wasteland of a nightclub vastly improved under new management, the dance floor packed with swaying bodies being a testament to that. Jack isn’t that far gone yet, buzzed enough to have some fun and not feel anything save for the thrum of the music. He doesn’t focus on anyone or anything in particular, moving to the beat of a song with lyrics muddled over the constant murmuring hum of that club crowd. Hands pass over his hips and arms, his vision a blurred mess of strobe lights, fog, and neon colors. Maybe he catches the whisper of a vulgar compliment or two, but he pays them no mind because they don’t matter and he really doesn’t feel like going home with someone again, at least not right now.

Eventually, he pulls himself out of the throng of bodies, his buzz beginning to taper enough to leave an open spot for his rip-raging angry conscience to question his self destructive life choices. He could be doing so much better than this, he could be _someone_ , he could have been a better person, a better brother--

He shuts his furious conscience up with shot of something that burns his throat and makes his eyes water, jet fuel that sears his insides and makes his head a once more numb and quiet place. He never could hold his liquor, and no amount of drinking builds any tolerance.

Jack leans heavily on the bar for a few minutes more, the room spinning as he tries to get a handle on the poison he’s just voluntarily ingested. He’s more than drunk enough now to go back to that roach infested death trap he calls an apartment and pass out on his mattress, or maybe the alleyway outside the building, it doesn’t matter and he doesn’t care.

With a rather uncoordinated push, he stands up from his slouched position against the bar, giving the club a last once over, to see if perhaps he does want to stay just a bit longer. He makes a glance up to the balcony that surveys the dance floor, having to take a step back when he unexpectedly meets a face staring back at him.

The first thing that hits Jack is that he has never seen eyes that gold, nor has he ever felt so compelled to willingly give his free will over to someone else. The face the eyes are set into fades into existence next, skin pale like ash, dark hair, bone structure sharp and angular, with cheekbones that would make any movie star green with envy.

_Holy shit._

And the stone carved face above him breaks out into one of the most contagious smirks Jack thinks he’s ever seen, almost like his thoughts had been heard.

Which is one hundred and fifty percent ridiculous, Jack thinks, even in his drunken state. What kind of moron would think mind reading was a legitimate thing--

He blinks and the face, the man, who had been staring down at him is no longer there. Jack blinks again, rubs hard at his eyes with dry, pale hands, squinting at that spot on the balcony, standing on his tiptoes even to get a better vantage point, almost falling flat on his ass.

“... How fucking drunk am I? Jesus Christ.” he mutters, shaking himself like a wet dog to try and get rid of the strange presence that has curled over him like fine tendrils of creeping ivy.

 ***

It’s not long after that he departs, retreating from the Asylum as fast as drunken stumbles can carry him. The door to his filthy apartment is unlocked, the stench of whatever the hell died in the vents hitting him head on. He has to try not to puke until he takes not five steps to his bathroom - the only other room in his apartment - and vomits what is now only stomach acid and vodka into the toilet bowl. So much for having perfect teeth for much longer if he keeps this up.

Jack wakes the next day at noon, on the floor of his bathroom, already an hour late for work. He struggles to get to his feet, the full force of a severe hangover nearly toppling him back over onto the linoleum floor. He barely manages to put on his work uniform before he drags himself out the door and down the stairs, figuring it better to show up looking like some strung out junkie rather than not show up at all. By now he’s completely forgotten about what happened at the Asylum the night before, easily pushed aside by his boss jumping down his throat when he walks into work, telling him that this is his last chance before he gets fired.

So Jack copes the only way he knows how. By the end of his shift, he’s back across the street at the club, drinking away his sorrows, the vicious cycle coming full circle once again. He’s on his third drink when he’s interrupted by a silky, rumbling voice and long, leather clad, musician's fingers curling over his right shoulder.

“You know, youth is such an _awful_ thing to waste.”


	2. Obey

 

"You know, youth is an _awful_ thing to waste. "

The voice alone sends chills rippling down the length of Jack's spine, skin puckering into gooseflesh as leatherbound fingers curl about his shoulder with icy finality. As intoxicated as he may be Jack still manages to whip his head around, world spinning as he wrenches himself from the iron grip.

A frantic gaze lands on the owner of the velveteen voice, finding that impossibly golden pair of eyes staring back at him with reserved curiosity. Jack can only wordlessly gape back at the man as he tries to form words, the memory of the night before flooding back to him.

“... Wh-who’re you?” Jack manages, with minimal slurring of his words. He can’t help the stutter though and is thankfully too drunk to give a damn about it.

The question gets him a smile from the stranger, who Jack realizes is startlingly tall, nearly seven feet if he had to make an educated guess. And that smile alone should make Jack cringe, but it doesn’t, it just pisses him off more than anything else.

“I could ask the very same of you,” the man counters, smug and far too collected. “You’re a new face in the crowd, something of a wayward lamb stumbling into the territory of wolves.”

To Jack that sounds like a threat, but he fails to speak up about it and whether that’s because of his inebriation or some scrap of a self preservation instinct still kicking around is anyone’s guess.

“Uh, you don’t know me, okay man? So I don’t know why the hell you’re telling me this shit,” Jack replies, taking a moment to glance at the man’s attire; a rather aristocratic looking suit made from fine black fabric. “I mean, least I fit in with the club scene. You though, you’re stickin’ out like a sore thumb.”

The man chuckles, a sound that makes Jack’s hair stand on end. It’s not even creepy sounding, just deep, lilting, and playing the barely noticeable tone of danger.

“Perhaps, but fitting into a scene has nothing to do with the fact that I am not news to this place.” he points out, easily thwarting Jack’s efforts to get the upper hand. “You however, are indeed news… But, plenty of fresh young faces pop up here and then either melt into the thick of the crowd, or they’re just never seen again.”

Jack narrows his gaze, that last part getting his attention. “ ‘S that some sort of threat?”

A headshake, another melodious chuckle. “No, of course not,” the man tells him, “I am merely telling you how it is out here. You’re no Californian, even less of a Santa Monican, and that much is _painfully_ obvious.”

“You have an English accent and you’re telling me it’s obvious that I’m not from around here? Yeesh, take a look in the mirror why don’t you?” the comeback honestly sounded more badass in Jack’s head, but this will have to do.

“And I am able to integrate myself far more seamlessly than you are, fancy that--”

“Seriously what the fuck do you want?” Jack’s patience has been wearing thinner and thinner with each word out of this pompous asshole’s mouth, and he’s surprised that he hasn’t flipped him off and walked away yet.

“To offer some assistance, if you will allow it.”

Jack scoffs, rolls his eyes.

“Don’t need any, _thanks_.”

The giant of a man gives another amused chuckle, golden eyes growing steely, narrowing upon Jack. “From my observations, you _do._ ” this guy apparently doesn’t know when to quit, Jack thinks. “Lovely young things like you don’t last long out here, less so when walking a path riddled with alcohol and one night stands. One wrong move and you’ll end up cut in half or buried underneath someone’s gazebo.”

Another sobering realization hits Jack, because this guy has definitely been stalking him, or at least watching what he does at the club. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry like cotton, silence reigning between the both of them as they hold a silent staring contest. Jack blinks.

“... I’m… I’m not going to ask about how or why you know that about me, but why do you even give a shit? You don’t know me.”

The man changes his stance, still open and relaxed, but it does little to calm the sense of wrong starting to creep back up Jack’s spine, despite his tough guy act. The artificial blue of his eyes flickers to the man’s hands, making sure that he isn’t moving to do something like grab him. He meets that pyrite gaze again, finding it fixed upon him with one dark brow arched.

“... My, you are a jumpy little thing… But, anyroad, perhaps it is not you I care about in particular, rather I have grown tired of seeing young fools like yourself getting killed when it is preventable. There are many more around Santa Monica that I could have chosen to help, you just happened to cross my path at the right time.”

Jack huffs, a hollow impersonation of a laugh. “So, am I gonna be your guinea pig or something?”

“If you would like to view yourself as some sort of lowly experimental rodent, then be my guest.” the man doesn’t quite laugh, but Jack can still hear the mirth in his voice.

“... Fucking perfect.” Jack mutters, a curl of distaste for the situation upon his lips. “But honestly, who says I’m gonna let you help me anyway? I could just be saying that to get you to leave me alone.”

The man’s head works on a slow tilt, something pleased creeping into the way he stares at Jack, making the bleach blond shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Oh, you will, trust me.”

“Says who?” Jack counters, finding at least some confidence in whatever is left of his liquid courage.

“I do.” the way he says that reminds Jack of the way winds churn winds before a storm hits, and his gut twists with sudden dread and unease. “And do you know what I think you’ll go do now?”

“... No?” Jack says, clipped.

“I think,” the man starts, voice slipping into something more beguiling than Jack thinks he’s ever heard, eyes alighting with an intoxication unlike anything a drink could do, and Jack can’t tear himself away. “ _That you are going to go home, get into bed, and go to sleep."_

Then it’s like he’s in a dream, his body moving against his will as he stands. A need surges through him, tingling all the way from the top of his head to the very tips of his toes. A word repeats over and over again in Jack’s mind, the humming din of a mantra that soon fills his head with it’s white noise.

 _Obey. O b e y ._ _**O B E Y .** _

And then his world seizes into nothingness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pitch is a creep, but that's not news. Props to anyone who can go ahead and guess what Bloodline he's from, it should be pretty obvious. 
> 
> Also a special thanks to ObsidianLace for putting up with me while I rambled at her for the past few days about this half baked AU that I have no idea what to do about.
> 
> Also made a playlist for this AU, which can be found over here: http://0olady-deliriumo0.tumblr.com/post/100753819258/blood-its-your-new-rack-o-lamb
> 
> Not sure when the next update will be, again I'm just winging this AU and seeing how far I'll get. Chapter length should increase as I go.


	3. Mind Games

The blaring screech of an alarm clock is silenced by the heavy weight of a pale hand, fingers fumbling to turn it off rather than simply putting it on snooze. The appendage pauses before going slack, gently pulled away as it’s owner shifts underneath the sheets.

Jack peels the blankets off, making a particularly disgruntled noise when the California sun shines directly in his eyes. He rubs at his face with dry hands, moving to run both of them through his hair, messing up his constant bedhead even more than it usually is. He sighs, relenting as one eye is opened and he peeks out into his filthy one room apartment. Everything is where it should be, the place is still an absolute shithole, nothing out of the ordinary--

The sun shouldn’t be where it is in the sky though, sunlight typical of later in the day leaking in through his windows. Slowly, he sits up in bed, taking half a moment to shake the sleep off and to glance at his alarm clock.

5:30 PM.

He blinks. Disbelieving of what the time he’s reading. That… That can’t be right.

But the sun hangs low in the sky, settling down and tucking itself in for the moon to watch over another sleepless night in Santa Monica. His eyes aren’t playing tricks on him and a quick, savage pinch to his forearm lets him know that he’s definitely awake. This is real.

All Jack recalls is entering The Asylum somewhere around ten in the evening the night before, and then nothing more. Did he really get that drunk? Normally he never blacks out, he can remember just about everything, never before has he lost nearly an entire _day_ of his life.

He has to retrace his steps, maybe wander back to the club so he can ask the bartender if he noticed anything strange, he knows the club is open at five.

Jack swings his legs over the side of the bed, and takes the five steps into his grimy little bathroom, coming to stand in front of the mirror. Wide, doe brown eyes stare back at him which means he still apparently had enough sense in his head last night to take out his colored contacts. He’s showered too from the looks of it, face clean of sweat and dirt that is the norm when he comes back from a night of heavy drinking at The Asylum.

The situation is growing stranger and more out of character for Jack by the minute. First he doesn’t remember his night or coming home, and now he’s found out that he actually prepared for bed like a normal human being, which he has trouble doing when he’s sober, let alone when completely hammered.

Whatever the hell is going on, Jack makes the decision to get to the bottom of it. Thirty minutes later and he’s ready, contacts in, hair styled and club clothes on, only tonight he doesn’t plan on drinking himself stupid. Playing detective isn’t exactly his forte, but he’ll try anything to figure out what happened to him.

***

Even at six in the evening, the Asylum is buzzing with energy, not enough to have lines out the door yet but it’s definitely getting there. Jack slips in no problem, being a regular for three weeks straight sure has it’s perks.

He makes a beeline for the bar and is greeted by the familiar bartender, a blue-eyed brunette who he is on a first and last name basis with.

“Your regular tonight, Jack?” the bartender asks, already going for the bottle of fireball that Jack still wonders how he manages to stomach.

“Maybe later, North.” he says, putting up a hand to further emphasize that he isn’t here for a drink. “I actually have some questions for you.”

North quirks a bushy brow, his mustache making the questioning purse of his lips far more noticeable.

“There is something troubling you?” North asks, genuine concern donning the edges of his words.

Jack sighs, taking a seat at the bar, shoulders losening just a small bit of their tension. For whatever reason that thick Russian accent of North’s always puts him at ease.

“Yeah, uh, it’s about last night.” Jack tells him, propping his elbows up on the bar and leaning in close so only North can hear. “See, I don’t quite remember what happened, which is weird ‘cause I never blackout. Ever. You’ve seen me do like five shots of fireball in a row and still remember everything the next night. So my question is… Did you by chance see me go off with anyone, y’know, like really strange? Because someone taking me home and drugging me is the only conclusion I can come to.”

North shakes his head, tousled chocolate colored strands shifting slightly with the movement. “No, you were here until… Until one, maybe two in the morning. You were out of sorts, but still coherent…” he trails off, brow furrowing. “But, you did catch the attention of someone.”

Jack looks at him with something like hope, it seems like his hunch wasn’t so far flung after all. “Who exactly? Did you know them.”

North nods. “Yes, but you see, he hasn’t been in here for… Very long time. But then he showed up one night, completely out of blue. He kept coming back after that, and now I am thinking that it must have been… Well, for you.”

“What? Why the hell would he come back looking for me?"

“I do not know,” North shrugs, absentmindedly picking up a glass to clean. “But he talked to you for maybe five, ten minutes before you up and left.”

That makes absolutely no sense to Jack whatsoever, nor does he remember ever talking to this man before in his life. North saw the whole thing and made no mention of anything being slipped into his drink, which Jack is sure would have been intercepted.

Another question then sparks in his mind and he doesn’t even try to hold it back.

“Is he here now?”

North pauses, lips thinning and he looks at Jack like he doesn’t want to give him a straight answer. But artificial blue eyes bore into him like frost burns and Jack knows full well that the brunette won’t deny him this scrap of knowledge after telling him so much.

“Yes, he is.”

“Where?” Jack doesn’t mean to hold so much venom in his voice when he asks, features softening apologetically.

He’s met with another pause before North heaves a sigh that makes Jack almost want to tell him to forget about it. Maybe this guy has ties to his bartender friend and the last thing Jack wants is to put North in hot water.

“He is up on balcony, in the back.” North tells him before Jack has a chance to relent. The young adult nods, standing up to leave.

“Hey, I won’t tell him that you told me anything, okay? I don’t want to get your ass in trouble.” that gets Jack a smile, a thanks muffled by the spine shaking beat of the music. Well, at least he doesn’t feel like that much of an asshole now.

***

Jack is up on the balcony overlooking the dance floor before he realizes it, having taken two steps at a time in his haste. It’s darker than the last time he remembers being up here, eerily so and he decides that he definitely isn’t a fan of it.  

He looks around, eyes adjusting to the dark until he’s able to make out the shapes of tables amongst it. There is absolutely no one up here, at least not until he takes a closer look.

He sees the outline of a very human and very tall shape in the darkness, sitting reclined in a chair. Jack steps closer and is hit with sudden memories of golden eyes and a whispered command willing him to sleep.

“Oh, and look who’s back.” the unfortunately familiar voice purrs, a tall, shapely wine glass gently clinking as it’s set down on the table’s surface.

“Is that to say that you were waiting for me, then?” Jack asks, stepping closer. Completely sober, he realizes just how all encompassing this man is. Tall, regal, elegant, like those high fashion models he sees in just about every magazine.

“Oh please, don’t flatter yourself, boy.” the man chides, rolling luminous amber hues in the dark. “I could accuse the same of you as you are now actively seeking me out, but I won’t. I might simply enjoy this club as much as you do.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m gonna call bullshit.” Jack will be a dead man before he lets this asshole turn the situation on it’s head like he somehow managed to do the night before.

The man looks at him, makes a somewhat impressed noise and smirks. “My, my, you are a tough customer to please, aren’t you?”

“Just shut up and tell me what you did to me last night,” Jack broadens his shoulders, trying to make himself look bigger than he actually is. He knows he’s got about as much of a threat factor as a kitten, though.

A calculating look is leveled upon Jack, with hellfire eyes that make him feel like he’s less than human. He gulps, but keeps his face stern, eyes narrowed because he’s not going to let this guy weasel his way out again.

“Why don’t you have a seat, hmm?” the man nods toward a chair set across the table from him.

Jack gives the seat a skeptical look and then glances back up to the man, not trusting the offer.

He tsks, rolling his eyes once more at Jack. “I would like to speak to you at an equal level, I’m not going glue your arse to the seat if that’s what you’re thinking. Go on. Sit.”

Reluctantly, Jack steps forward, taking a seat on the very edge of the chair, hands balled into fists sitting in his lap.

“Okay. we’re at the same level. Will you tell me what you did to me last night now? Because I lost almost an entire day.”

“What I did was help you.” the man informs him, like it should have been obvious.

“Help me?” Jack’s voice raises in volume, outraged. “Dude, I couldn’t fucking remember _anything_ from last night until I saw your smug ass sitting here. You did something to me and I don’t what the hell it was. Am I gonna die or something? Did you date rape me? I’ve got half a mind to go to the cops about--”

“ _No._ ” the iron in the man’s voice stops Jack dead in his tracks. He swallows, watches those honeyed beacons turn cold, like steel. “I committed no such heinous act, of that I can assure you. And you will not go to the police about what you think may have happened, am I clear, child?”

Jack’s head is working on an adamant nod before he has a chance to even contemplate it, a potent fear awakening deep in the pit of his gut.

“Good.” a smile curls onto the man’s lips.

“... I…” Jack starts in, the man hums in inquiry. “I still don’t understand how you say you “helped” me, though.”

“All will be revealed in time,” is all Jack gets from him, and he feels a little spark of fury flicker to life inside his chest. “That is… If you decide to continue allowing my help, I can show you. I _will_ show you.”

The last thing Jack wants to do is agree to allow this creep to continue fucking with his head, but something in him whispers that he has no choice, that this is what he must do.

“I don’t even know your name.” Jack avoids the statement, giving no spoken agreement.

The man silently looks on for a few quiet moments more, even taking a sip of his wine before he decides he wants to give Jack some sort of answer.

“You may call me Pitch.”

 


End file.
